My First Choices
by LondonBelow
Summary: Maureen has decided she wants to lose her virginity to Roger, but Roger doesn't think this is the best idea.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Rent is Jonathan Larson's.

I am sixteen.

I, Maureen Johnson, am ready to lose my virginity.

I am.

I'm ready.

I've thought about it a lot. I've thought about losing it to myself. I don't just mean masturbation. I'm pretty flexible. I could probably get my fingers up there far enough to break my hymen. That's what I used to think about, my hymen, not which boy would be the first to put his penis in my vagina but which boy would break my hymen. I imagined it as a sort of wet, pinkish, filmy thing that would feel like the inside of my cheek and be about as thick as cellophane. I thought about sticking my fingers up there and trying to feel it, the thick, mucusy membrane of my virginity. My hymen.

Why hy_men_?

It bothered me, it truly did. There shouldn't be something down there, in a woman's intimate places, with _men_ in it. If men go down there it should be her choice. They don't go there because they want to. It's because SHE wants them to. A woman decides when and which part of a man enters her privatest places. It seems so wrong, and so invasive, that she should be born with men down there!

Of course it turns out it's a Greek word from Hymenaeus, the Greek god of marriage and weddings. Even if it is such a fruity thing, I guess that's okay. A man down there was unacceptable. But a _god_…

In learning this, I learned something else. I wouldn't necessarily bleed my first time. My hymen wouldn't necessarily break. It wasn't a trapdoor to my womb that did the magical thing only women's bodies can.

Turns out your first time really is about a man sticking his penis in your vagina. So I needed to decide not which boy I would let break me but which boy I would let invade me. I surreptitiously examined each boy in my classes, the back of each head. Martin needed to wash his hair. Bryan never brushed his pudding bowl cut. Gideon couldn't sit still. Matt had an STD. Jacob had a bulbous Adam's apple. None of the boys at school were clean and good enough.

I was doing my homework at the kitchen table when I saw the perfect boy. He was tall and lanky, but attractive. He had great eyes, especially, kind and beautifully green, and lovely, curly blond hair. I stared while he stood by the fridge, sucking down chocolate milk.

"Hey, Roger," I said.

Roger turned. "Hey, Ree." He put the milk back in the refrigerator. I was just opening my mouth to start talking about sex when he shut the door. Another boy was standing there, shorter and broader than Roger with blue eyes, blond hair and bad skin. Roger wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "This is Mark."

"Hey, Mark. Rog, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure."

"Upstairs."

"Uh…" He glanced at Mark. "Sure. Just help yourself," he told Mark.

We went up to my bedroom and I explained my plan. Roger was a sweet boy who cared about me. It didn't have to be anything but an initiation, an experience. He would wear a condom. And Roger's reaction was a mixed look of confusion and disgust. "Maureen… I'm your cousin!"

I rolled my eyes. "Third cousin," I insisted. We were barely related.

Roger shook his head. "No. No way. Maureen, no, ew!"

"Roger, listen. We're here alone like every afternoon. You care about me. You'll be gentle, you won't use me, it's perfect," I reasoned out. Roger was still shaking his head. "You're the perfect person to pop my cherry."

"What about my cherry?" he replied. I didn't tend to think of boys as really having cherries. Roger did. And he didn't want me to be his first time. His first time, he felt, should be something special, something he felt was right, and so should mine. It should be with someone he/I loved, even if we fell out of love…

Blah, blah, blah.

_to be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

WARNING: This chapter is of dubious rating and might be considered M for sexual content.

Disclaimer: Rent is Jonathan Larson's.

Roger lived with us because his mom had some problems and his dad was dead. There were so many rumors at school, even I didn't know the truth. His dad beat him before dying. No, his dad loved him, and died holding Roger's hand. No, both right, both wrong, his dad beat him and died holding his hand, begging forgiveness. Roger was only six, but he wouldn't give it and he's never forgiven himself. No, Roger's parents both died in a tragic accident. And his mom? She worked in Vegas as a stripper. No, she was in rehab. No, she was dead. No, back to Vegas, but she wasn't a stripper, she was a blackjack dealer.

This all boiled down to Roger having some emotional problems. He had therapy on Thursday afternoons. It's weird when the guy who every other night of the week checks your homework locks himself in his room all night.

One Friday, my parents announced, "We're going to see a play."

"What, all of us?" I asked. Roger rolled his eyes at me. It was sort of obvious. There I was, hair braided for the night, wearing an old t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, Roger in his jeans and a shirt with the sleeves cut off, while Mom and Dad stood there dressed to the nines.

Mom shook her head. "You two are going to stay here. There's a twenty on the table for pizza. Be good." She kissed us both on the forehead. Dad hugged me.

When the door closed, the house seemed much bigger and emptier. Roger shook his head and went into the kitchen.

I dogged him. "What kind of pizza should we get?"

"Whatever kind you want, Maureen." He reached behind the refrigerator and pulled out a dark glass bottle. I knew it was beer. "I'll stay out of your way, okay?"

"Sure, Roger." I looked at the twenty dollar bill on the table. I debated pocketing it, but that would have been too obvious. The trick was to order a cheap pizza and pocket the change. "Are you, like, depressed?"

He shook his head. "Just had a really rough week," he explained, then disappeared upstairs. I watched him go, then stuck out my tongue. He could be such a pompous jerk. 'Rough week', like three AP classes and fifteen months made him more grown-up than me!

I ended up pigging out on pepperoni pizza and chocolate milk in front of a _Twilight Zone_ marathon. Roger's evening existed on my periphery. I said hi to Mark when he came over. I noticed Roger coming downstairs again. Whether or not I noticed the booze, I can't say. I know about it now because the bottles were tossed all over his bedroom later.

The marathon ended at ten-thirty. I switched off the TV, put away the leftover pizza and went upstairs. My room was right across the hall from Roger's. I heard Mark throwing up in the bathroom. Roger was passed out across his bed, and there was a mostly empty bottle of vodka on the floor. He wouldn't wake up for anything. I said his name, shook him, and even tried slapping his face. He was out cold.

I watched him for a moment. He could have been asleep. He was drooling slightly. This was getting boring; I decided to just leave. It was then that Roger did the most disgusting, boyish thing he would do all night: he simultaneously farted and scratched himself. That's when I got the idea.

I went back to my room. I could still hear Mark puking down the hall; I peeked in. He was curled around the toilet, moaning and shaking. He would be there for a while. In my desk drawer, I had a box of rubbers. I picked a green one. I didn't know Roger's size, but how different could the sizes be, right?

I went back to Roger's room. It was a sty. It had been the guestroom once, and appropriately non-descript. Now the walls were plastered over with posters of rock bands and the floor littered with books, old guitar strings, sheet music and dirty boxers. I wasn't sure, not truly, that I wanted this, to do this in this mess of a room. I couldn't think of a verb for it. But though I had doubts, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

I unzipped Roger's fly, then glanced up. He didn't stir. I opened his jeans, slipped my hand through the slit in his boxers and whipped it out. It was as floppy and silly-looking as I remembered.

How did you get one of these started, I wondered. There should be an on switch. I unrolled the condom, pinched down the end and slid it onto Roger, making his junk unseasonably festive. I stroked the condom a couple of times to make sure it was on right, not wrinkled or anything. Roger started getting hard.

It was easier, once he had an erection. I pulled off my pajama pants. My thighs were pasty pink; most everything was covered by my shirt. I glanced at Roger once more, then pushed him into me.

It hurt. I arched my back and whined deep in my throat. Down the hall, Mark vomited. With a soft grunt I forced myself to move, impaled though I was. I rolled my hips and bucked and tried to make it feel good. I tried bending over, sticking my fingers in and trying to move his penis against the spots that felt good when I touched myself. It didn't work, not really. It was too big and rigid; this is not what I wanted inside me, I wanted him a little more flaccid, gentler. But nothing I had ever heard or read suggested there was anything I could do to get rid of his erection, other than the obvious. So that's what I did. I couldn't stop yet, not when I wasn't even bleeding, so I pushed against Roger and rode him until he came.

Roger just lay there throughout all of this. I think he burped at one point.

The loss of my virginity was no monumental occasion. The ground did not split, the earth did not shake. Hell did not freeze over. It wasn't even that good.

And I did not bleed.

_the end_

That's the end of that piece, but it has a companion piece, "Second Virginity", and I'm working on another one, about Roger. I hope you enjoyed my story and if you want to review, that'd be awesome.


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